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The AUGOST 1999 section of the big doubel July - Augost '99 Update

Page 1 of 4 of Update 2 of 2

Granfather's email and disgousting atachment

This was surely be the end of my career. By the way I soon reckongized the name of "Amanda Wreckinwith", it is the name of a loose womon Granfather and half the male poppulation of the small town they lived in back in the 1940s used to scandallously cohabbitate with behind the grain silo, tobacco shed and othor rickety agricultorol structures in the vincinnity of the railroad tracks. (Well, that was the story the old basterd used to tell me and my brothor when we were growing up. Eithor that, or he made the danm name up cause it sounds like 'A Man to Reckon With').

Youve Got mail!

Just as evereyone left my cubical (with Stu folowwing along still maintaining that he was sorry for droppin the giant fart that he did not), I received anothor e-mail. This one anounced the all hands staff meeting. The meeting was set for 4:30.

You know what - the hell with it

Yes he hell with it. Before I even get into this update Here is what hapenned with Granfather in San Fransisco that I swore never to share publicly. I am that angrey with him for houmilliating me at work where my job aleady hangs by a thread.

As you know somtimes i am prone to exaggorration in my web page but this particilor story is all the more ghastley because it is entirely true. Witness the fact that my familly begged me never to speak of it. Well in any case somwhere arround 1950 when the old basterd was 17 years old and known genorally as "The Young basterd" his familly which at that time consisted of his mothor and his two older brothors somhow ended up in San francisco stayin for about a month in this cheap ramshackol fleabitten boardinghouse down by the whorf. The details of why are not remmembered. Perhaps one of my Uncles was bein shipped off to war, or else they were there to see a speciel doctor. Also even thogh they were dirt poor they actualy used to travel to see rellatives allot all over the US.

In any case they were walkin on the whorf one night and the evil teenaged 80 pound barely post pubesscent baby of the family (Granfather) somhow insults a coupol of big tough sailors and he ends up fighting with about six of them.

An unfair match, you say? You betcha. Those poor sailors didnt know how close to death they got. You have to factor in the claws, savage fangs and toxic saliva not to mention horriffic overpowering stench. And so, yes, an unfair fight in ballance of the beastly basterd's favor.

At first Granps gets the best of the fight, beatin the crap out of the formidable Navy men, a few who were actualy cryin for there mommies as the old bastered pummeled kicked and bit them. (Granfather's brothers tried to join the fray as well, on the sailer's side actualy, in hopes of realizing there dream of kickin Granp's ass, but there mother forbade them).

In any case finaly two more big burley seamen jump in swinging heavey planks with nails in them and they beat the tar out of him. Most of the nails bounced and bent like blades of grass agianst his leathory inhuman shell-like hide, howevor 8 people beatin on him proved to be too much. They were wiping up the pier with the old basterd and soon he was a writhing screamming mass of blood, snot, wiry hairs, peir splinters and seagull crap.

Granfather treid to scamper away and ecsape, and in doing so he dove off the pier aiming for a ship in the harbor but he hit his head on the iron hull with a giant clang and fell in the bay. Soon all that was seen of him was a few bubbles and a disgousting oily slick thet wafted to the surface as the little monster's short but already at age 17 way-too-long life was presumobly at an end. And so was that of any unfortunnate marine life that might of been downcurrent of his stinking poisonnous remains.

Granfather's brothors tried to conseal there jubilant glee in consoling there mother on the inherint death of her devil spawn. Three weeks lator just as they were plannin to return to Texas a strange visiter appeared at the bordinghouse they were staying in. It was a sailor who told Granfather's mother that his best buddy, still hospitollized from a late night tussel with a very uncivil civillian had gone awol because of a rumor of a "savage beast" that shortly pryor had emerged from the dark cold waters of the bay and was now prowling the streets in the city of San Fransisco surviving on gulls, rats and stray pets.

Aftor folowing a bunch of leads they found themselfs in a tiny gloomey shop lit by foggy light streamin through grease streaked dusty windows in a dark alley in Chinatown. An anceint bearded man behind the countor listened patiently to the story that three rural Texens told them of a monstrous wayword kinfolk.

Slowley he nodded and led the three of them thruogh a doorway into a squallid candolit chamber covored with strings of beads into a back room on which from a raftor ceiling hung an iron cage where squatting on an inch of soggy newsprint bedding which consisted of some old poop spattored Father Coughlin tracts lining the cage's bottom and gripping with clawed talons the bars of the slowley swinging prison stairing out to them snarling with rage and conpletly buck ass nakad exept for a filthey bright pink paper sailer hat which read across the top "Helen Gahagan Douglas Is A Communist/Vote Nixon For Senate" was Granfather.

As the monstrous rabbid creature snarled at the visiters, serannading them with a threattening low pitched yet whistoling growl, the shopkeeper began to speak.

"A Thai freightor picked this up four days ago floating off the coast of Molokai," he explianed, in bettor English than they thoght he woud. Thinking it was some sort of sea monkey the Thai sailors had originaly planned to kill it and make soup out of it. But insted they broght it to Sanfrancisco, their next port of call after an unexplained disapearence of one of the prospective cooks, as he made the mistake of being alone with it in the ship's kitchon while tryin to think up a recipe that might mask the horroble odor of the mysterrious sea beast.

Somhow once in the port, the animal got loose, and after a few days a squad of the sailors once agian cought it. This time they broght it into the shop of the man they were now speakking to. He purchased it from them, and he had hoped in coming days to sloughter the beast, dry its flesh out in strips as ornamentol talismans and grind the bones into an evil potion.

Granfather's mothor called the police and they too coud not conclude that Granfather was entirely human. This was in the days before the Food and Drug Adnimistration and so species identification was inconclusive.

And so the old man agreed (actually was very happy) to turn the creature ovor to its claimed owners. Uncle Zeke and Uncle Willaim who are Granfather's older brothers, and their mom once agian took posession of the old basterd. But first they had to pay the shopkeeper 49 cents a pound. Which back in 1950 was presumabley the going rate for rare reptile meats, live on the hoof. Or claw. Or whatevor the hell those sharp hourny curved things are on Granfather's feet. This is a 100% true story. There I have shaired it and he deserves it and now I feel great.

The 4:30 meeting begins with A sombor mood

Like I said the main consultent at my job is this creepy guy who looks like Prince Charles. So Ugly, mean old Prince Charles was there in front working the ovorhead projector. Standing next to him were the othor big bosses, including his stooge uncle, and they all had there arms folded and were frowning at us. In a stern voice they showed us all of these hastilly drawn overheads that looked like somone who was just learning MS Word threw some crap togethor and then ran them through a transpairency machine. There were all kind of graphs. One of them projected what kind of layoffs we coud expect if we, quote, "didnt get our house in order."

Howevor, no reasons for the house being in disorder were even given. Neithor were remedies given to repaire it. (Remember, we are "the company withuot a purpose)".

People dont stay 'late enuogh'

Next we all got hollared at for not staying late. My boss's boss, who looks like the little cartoon guy in the "...For Dummies" books, exept evil, lashed into us all because he claims to of walked arround the office the other day at 7 PM and he noticed that the place was allmost empty.

"What are we runnin here?," he shouted, "An effin' country club?"

He is from the New york office and mabye he thinks he is bettor than evereyone else, mabye not, but he always has mean things to say.

Then we had a break.

Evereyone headed to the bathroom, which i mentionned in the past was one of those unisex bathrooms like the one they have on Ally McBeal.

Not one persen in this place ever wanted a unisex. The bosses did it only to improve sagging morale. As if tinkling next to somone of the opossite sex is suposed to make me like my job better. The bosses still have there OWN bathrooms: One for men and one for women.

I still remmember the stupid memo anouncing the new unisex, where we were all told that, here on the cusp of the New Mellenium, and in the Age of Convergence how the workplace is no longer mere a job, but insted a "Voyage of Understanding."

I geuss the only thing i understand now that i didnt before was that a woman in the stall next to you whose scaired to death about losing her job for no reasen makes the same exact sounds as a man when theyre both reacting the form of a nervous crap.

I am offored a possible deal